


The title of citizen

by anamia



Series: Animates 'verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Battle Pillows, Everybody Lives, Gen, argumentative barrels, everything is alive, no seriously this is absurd, patriotism and revolutionary fervor, sentient chairs, temperamental cobblestones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The pillows keeping watch atop the structure formed crenellations, vicious and brightly patterned, death coated in flowers and embroidery."</p><p>The AU where the streets and furniture of Paris rise to join the revolutionaries and things go rather differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The title of citizen

**Author's Note:**

> This... will require some context. So one of the hallmarks of a fandom with terribly depressing source material is a tendency to create absurd AUs in an attempt to counteract the sads of both the original canon and a lot of fanworks. One of these ridiculous AUs in my corner of the Les Mis fandom involves battle pillows, which have been specially bred and raised for hunting and combat. Bahorel has some, because of course he does.
> 
> This fic is an AU of that AU, where it is not just the pillows that are alive but roughly everything. The conversation that originated the fic is [here](http://kingedmundsroyalmurder.tumblr.com/post/65744819091/i-would-also-adore-a-crack-verse-where-bahorel-has-to).

The barricade rose menacingly, a mass of tangled chair legs and empty barrels. A large overturned cart formed one whole half, banked by sturdy tables, cracks stuffed with bed sheets and one brightly patterned comforter whose origins no one could quite remember. It towered over the heads of its creators, as daunting for its defenders as for the inevitable assailants. Barrels littered the ground behind it, some stacked on top of each other to provide makeshift stairs, others stuffed with extra weapons and emergency supplies. The pillows keeping watch atop the structure formed crenellations, vicious and brightly patterned, death coated in flowers and embroidery. It was a masterful creation; the revolutionaries responsible for its edification could only hope that it would be enough.

Men milled around behind the barricade, many tense, some prepared, a few relaxed enough to joke. Gavroche darted here and there, carrying messages between the lieutenants and ducking away from any well meaning students who would try to send him away. He had already conducted an argument with Enjolras concerning this very matter; he had neither the time nor the inclination for a repeat performance with someone else. He wore a battered cap at a jaunty angle and had found a long strip of red fabric to fashion into a sash.

Though Gavroche ran everywhere, he spent much of his time hovering around Bahorel, who had been instrumental in the barricade's construction and was now examining it with a craftsman's critical gaze. He paced its length, testing certain areas and adjusting the angles of chair legs, ensuring that the creation would not collapse at the first hint of strain. When asked where he had acquired quite so much expertise in the art of barricade creation, Bahorel had produced a wicked grin and reminded his interrogator that he was older than any of them and that his skills were vast and mysterious. Given that he was flanked not only by Gavroche but also his favorite of the pillows, no one had attempted to question him further.

Now he stopped before the very center of the barricade, propping his hands on his hips and fixing the construction with a fierce look. "You look here," he said, apparently to the barricade itself. "I expect you to do me proud tonight or so help me you'll wish I'd left you to the soldiers, understand?"

One of the chairs shifted, and Bahorel glared. "None of that," he said. "This is serious business, you hear? We are conducting a revolution, not merely engaging in some scuffle. I won't have you ruining our chances because you think it might damage your varnish. There are things more important than varnish."

A different chair shifted this time, then another. Bahorel nodded. "You see?" he said. "They understand what we're doing here. Would any of you choose the enemy? They say the tyrant sets fire to furniture each time he stubs his toes. Is that the kind of treatment you want to endorse?"

"Does he really?" Gavroche asked, his eyes wide.

"Of course," Bahorel said. "None may touch his person without permission, not even his chairs." He scowled while Gavroche spat onto the ground to show his disdain for the tyrant whose name he neither knew nor cared to learn.

"Next time he comes through town in that fancy carriage of his I'll break into it and spit on _him_ ," the gamin declared.

"That's the spirit," Bahorel said, clapping Gavroche hard on the back. The pillow beside him, its case a deep resplendent crimson, wriggled purposefully in agreement. Bahorel turned his attention back to the barricade. "You hear that?" he demanded. "Here we have a true revolutionary, and you're concerned with your _varnish_. What kind of spirit is that in a place like this?"

The chair which had originally expressed its disapproval moved again, and one of the barrels rolled closer to Bahorel, metal bands clanking loudly against the cobblestones. Bahorel rounded on it.

"You leave my waistcoats out of this," he snapped. "They are neither here nor there and not your concern."

The barrel rocked back and forth, its metal components tapping out a rude retort against the ground. Bahorel made a fist.

" _You're_ not one to talk," he snapped. "When was the last time _you_ worried about getting polished?"

"Yeah!" Gavroche added. He could not converse with the furniture as Bahorel could, but any enemy of Bahorel's was an enemy of his, even if it was an empty flour barrel.

The barrel rocked until it could flip itself upright, sounding _very_ put out as it did so. Bahorel's scowl didn't lessen in the slightest. "I will _not_ take it back," he said. "I will not tolerate such insubordination in the ranks! Apologize or stand behind your words like a proper brawler; don't resort to _rhetoric_. It doesn't suit you, and anyway rhetoric is the weapon of the enemy. Or would you have me cast aside my waistcoats and take up _wig-wearing_?"

The barrel hopped forward a little, a few of its fellows behind it. It spun in place, and Bahorel gave a yell of fury. "That's it," he snarled, and swung a large fist into the side of the barrel, splitting the wood with a loud crack. The wounded barrel flung itself upon him, while one of its allies rolled up behind Bahorel and tripped him. He landed with a crash, barrels surround him, still yelling. The first barrel tried to jump onto his head but he punched it again, breaking more of its slats. The metal bands sagged as it lost its upright form, and Gavroche took it upon himself to kick out the other side, causing the metal to fall to the ground in a series of clanks. Bahorel grabbed the nearest one and swung it at the rest of the barrels, causing them to shuffle back hurriedly. He rose, shedding the last of the barrels, and glowered at them. "Anyone else?" he demanded. The barrels shifted nervously but none moved closer. He turned his glower towards the chairs. "How about you?" he snapped. None of the chairs moved, though one of the tables shivered a little in unkind amusement. "Don't even start," Bahorel warned it. "I've seen what _you_ think of people who don't wipe up their drinks." The table fell still and he nodded. "I thought so," he said.

"What's going on here?" It was Combeferre, looking at the still twitching barrel corpse with a frown.

"Just a philosophical disagreement," Bahorel said, cheerful once more. "Sometimes barrels get a bit full of themselves. Usually quite accommodating, but you know how it goes. Even the best wine can be ruined by some bad grapes."

"So you felt the need to destroy it?" Combeferre asked, still frowning.

"It impugned my honor," Bahorel said. He dusted off his hands. "But enough of that ingrate. How go the other preparations?"

With one last wary look at the remains of the fight Combeferre let himself be distracted, filling Bahorel in on the current state of the men and munitions that he had missed while conversing with their defenses. Gavroche kicked the pile of splintered wood for good measure then scampered after the two men.

*

"Who goes?"

The sergeant’s voice boomed down the street as behind him a regiment of guardsmen raised their weapons. Enjolras, standing atop the barricade, glanced at Combeferre, who nodded.

"French Revolution!" he called back, then scrambled down a little as the guardsmen began firing. The revolutionaries returned fire, while the pillows stationed atop the barricade leapt down to attack the nearest guardsmen. Their surprised shouts were muffled by vicious cloth as the pillows got to work.

Bahorel, standing near the center of the barricade, had a gun in one hand and a sword in the other. He was grinning recklessly, his pillow beside him, both of them presenting a formidable obstacle to anyone attempting to breach the protective wall. He kept an eye on the rest of the combatants, both human and not, ready to help anyone who needed it. For the most part his friends and fellow fighters were holding their own quite well. The humans in the group were well armed, testament to months of work collecting and hiding weaponry, and Enjolras had made sure that everyone who had a gun knew how to use it. They were hardly a well oiled military, but the relative chaos worked to their advantage. The barricade shifted beneath his feet, chairs moving to catch bullets and repel invaders.

"Keep an eye on that table," Bahorel called down to Gavroche during a momentary break in the fighting. "I think it's wounded." Sure enough, the table was listing dangerously to one side, its leg close to buckling where it had been clipped by a bullet.

"Got it!" Gavroche called back, racing over to the table and assessing the damage. Bahorel watched just long enough to see him start constructing a splint from a nearby broken rifle and his red sash then went back to his fight. He found himself face to face with an impressively mustachioed guardsman. Before Bahorel could dispose of him the pillow at his side pounced, throwing itself at him and toppling them both from the barricade. Bahorel aimed his gun towards another encroaching guardsman, found himself out of ammunition, and threw it instead. The gun corrected its flight in midair, striking the guardsman's head with a crack.

The attacking force drew back and Bahorel levered himself down to the ground. They were doing well. He had no doubt that the soldiers had expected -- and perhaps even hoped -- that the revolutionaries to fall at the first hint of fighting. Instead they were holding their own, humans with weapons and the rest with their natural defenses. He ran a hand along the barricade, checking for weak spots, praising chairs which had fought especially bravely. The barrels crowded around him, eager for his approval after their earlier insubordination.

"This is only a temporary reprieve," Enjolras warned the assembled fighters. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks flushed, his eyes burning. Bahorel twisted to look at him, appreciative of the charisma Enjolras wielded. "The day is not yet won. But take heart, my friends. We have withstood the first assault and we shall withstand the others. The people shall hear our call and lend us their strength. We shall not be left to fight alone."

The men cheered their agreement, throwing their fists into the air enthusiastically. Bahorel joined in, adding his full throated bellow to the cheer. Gavroche hooted his own enthusiasm, calling loudly for death to kings and tyrants the world over.

"Stay to your posts," Combeferre said. "And place your trust in each other."

Bahorel started to add something of his own but he was distracted by an insistent presence at his feet. Looking down, he saw one of the pillows which had served as scouts, a large cream-colored pillow with the faintest hint of lace at its edges, vibrating anxiously. He crouched down to meet it at eye level.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

The pillow vibrated some more, wriggling to and fro as it reported what it had seen. He nodded. "Understood. Tell the others to be ready."

The pillow clambered back up the barricade while Bahorel stood. "Enjolras," he called. Everyone turned towards him, most frowning.

"What is it?" Enjolras asked.

"They've got cannons," Bahorel reported. "Several of them." One of the chairs at the top of the barricade moved, rapping loudly against the others. He glanced up at it. " _And_ reinforcements," he added.

"We will be prepared," Enjolras said. "Now that we are forewarned we can take precautions."

Bahorel turned back to the barricade as Enjolras began giving orders. He inspected it carefully, then nodded. "You all know what to do?" he asked the assorted items of furniture.

The barricade rippled its agreement, and Bahorel grinned. A polochon raised itself nearly all the way upright, while two of the barrels stacked themselves into a menacing pile. Bahorel nodded his approval even as one of the barrels scooted close to him and offered him a new gun.

*

In the end, the guardsman never got the chance to fire the cannons. The lieutenants conferred, sketching battle plans in the dirt, discussing in tense voices how best to preserve their fighting force against the onslaught. Bahorel contributed when he felt it necessary, lending the others his rather more extensive knowledge of such things. Behind them, the barricade shifted almost unnoticeably, strengthening itself and blocking any cracks. The wounded table straightened with a groan, preparing itself for the assault. A group of cobblestones shivered where they were stuck to the ground, working themselves free of the binding mud. In the silence before the storm the very street held itself in readiness.

The polochon gave the signal to attack, though few of the men recognize it for what it was. Before the artillery sergeant could call for the attack to begin, the pillow drew itself up to its full height once more and leapt heroically from the top of the barricade, landing on the ground with a soft thump and slithering snake-like towards the enemy. The guardsmen shot at it but could not stop its onslaught, though soon enough it trailed feathers.

Other pillows followed suit, filling the air with the sound of cloth scratching on stone as they rushed the enemy. Bahorel took advantage of the distraction to fire at the nearest guardsman, figuring that the pillows had made it fair game to attack. Gavroche rushed towards the barricade but Bahorel caught him by the collar, holding him back. "Don't," he said. "You'll want to watch from a good vantage point."

Gavroche frowned, but his confusion was short lived. As the guardsmen struggled to fire the cannon despite the onslaught the barricade itself began to move, shuddering as the bottom layer of chairs scuttled across the ground. Cobblestones came loose, rolling ominously behind the moving barricade. Guardsmen and revolutionaries alike stopped in their tracks to watch it, mouths agape in wonder or terror. Gavroche laughed, delighted.

Bahorel nudged the nearest cobblestone with a foot. "What, precisely, are you waiting for?" he asked it.

As thought to spite him the cobblestone turned over, presenting a muddy underside to the world. Bahorel rolled his eyes at its dramatics and pointedly looked away. A moment later the cobblestone hoisted itself up and clattered towards the barricade. In a move which seemed impossible, it propelled itself up the barricade and launched itself towards the guardsmen, clanking loudly against one of the cannons. Other cobblestones followed suit, raining down upon the enemy.

The guardsmen, already scrambling back in the face of the oncoming barricade, turned and ran at this new threat. Several were slowed by pillows clamped to their legs and feet, but those who could escape did so, leaving their comrades behind. The revolutionaries by now had recovered their wits and ran towards the barricade, firing into the air to encourage the soldiers to keep running. Gavroche too ran ahead, jumping onto the moving barricade with a whoop and clambering to the top. There he stood, proud as any general, as the barricade reached the first of the cannons, dented and battered by the rain of stones.

Enjolras hung back, his face alight with triumph. "Citizens!" he declared, voice ringing down the street. " _Friends_. Paris herself has come to our aid. The streets have answered our call. The city is on our side. Sweet victory is ours, my friends, for no army can hope to fight the divine will of Paris, jewel of our patria."

A raucous cheer rang up from the revolutionaries.

"We have work to do still," Enjolras warned. "For though we have won the day we have not yet reclaimed our homeland for the people. But our victory here proves that we _shall_ succeed. We will see the people follow their city and at last they shall have the liberty which is their divine right!"

Another cheer.

"Citizens, we have shed blood today. It was shed for a noble cause, a _just_ cause, but it was the blood of our brothers all the same. We must never forget what they sacrificed for our liberty, nor must we forget that they were men like us, men who stood against us not because they felt it right but because they were ordered to do so. This is what comes of tyranny, my friends. Brothers fighting brothers, men shedding blood for causes they do not consider just. And we have seen that the city herself revolts against such an outrage, such a perversion of natural right! The very stones of Paris tremble in fury and come to our aid." The revolutionaries were silent now, hung on his every word. Even Gavroche refrained from making any commentary, though he remained perched atop the now still barricade. "This fight does not end here," Enjolras continued. "It does not end with us. We are only a beginning, only a small ripple, but the wave is coming. We have made an impact, and with Paris behind us we cannot help but succeed. We will have liberty, my friends, and we will have it _soon_!"

Bahorel started the cheering this time, a loud chorus of agreement and ecstasy that came from man and object alike. The street rumbled with approval, while the pillows raised themselves to their full heights and vibrated furiously.

"And to the streets I say this," Enjolras continued, pitching his voice above the cheering. "You have fought bravely for our cause, for _your_ cause. This city does not belong to men alone, but to all beings, all _things_ , for we are all citizens of France, and she loves all who fight and die for her sake."

The barricade rumbled again, nearly knocking Gavroche off in its enthusiasm. The cobblestones came rolling back, streaming up and over the barricade and through the revolutionaries' ranks to pile around Enjolras, offering their support for his future endeavors. He nodded solemnly at them, accepting their offer with the gravity it deserved. When he looked up again his eyes blazed. "Tend to your wounded," he said. "And then we will lead our people to freedom."

*

Epilogue:

"They're _dangerous_ Combeferre!"

"But they should not be able to propel themselves so fluidly! What mechanism allows stones to roll _up_ as opposed to merely down?"

"The same mechanism that allows them sentience. Look out!"

The two speakers ducked as a cobblestone launched itself into the air, as though deliberately provoking Combeferre's scientific curiosity.

"If we could harness that energy, just imagine what we could do!"

"Yes, well, try to harness it from a safe distance. We didn't win just for you to be killed by our own ammunition."

A displeased murmur from the pile of cobblestones.

"Ah, fellow citizens, I mean." Courfeyrac shook his head. "Come get a drink. There will be time enough to study the miracles of science after we've finished tearing down the world, don't you think?"

 

A little ways away:

"Er, I do thank you for your kind attention and gracious protection, but if you would be so kind as to permit me to rejoin my companions I would be most grateful."

"Bossuet, what if it doesn't let you go? What if it tries to eat you? _Do_ carts eat? If it lives it must, but what could a cart possibly consume? Sawdust? Would that not be considered cannibalism, or desecration of the deceased? Prouvaire says the pillows eat his hats; what if it tries to eat your boots? You don't have any more!"

"Calm down Joly. I'm quite certain that this lovely, er, actually have you a sex? I don't mean to be impolite, but I don't wish to refer to you by an incorrect designation. I'm sorry, I don't understand your language. Would mind if I used the feminine? You're quite a gracious cart, you know, well made and sturdy. Did you used to carry stones? It's just that you seem quite accustomed to dealing with their temperamental natures. Anyway, I'm quite certain she won't eat my shoes. But if you're concerned why don't you ask Bahorel, who seems to have a stronger bond with our allies than we do. No, no, I don't mean to offend, I'm terribly sorry. I'm certain we won't require a translator soon, if you insist on keeping me hostage here. No, I am quite pleased, don't get me wrong. I have not had a permanent home in quite some time, and to have made a friend in the process of acquiring one is not luck I ever thought I could replicate. Only, you see, the fighting has ceased and if you would not mind letting me reassure my friends that I am still in one piece I would be much obliged. No? Very well then, let us become better acquainted. Have you a name?"

 

Still further down the street:

"I'm _sorry_ about what I said the other day! I didn't intend to insult your patterning, I assure you! I had no idea you would take it as such an insult! ... What's that? No, I don't know that gesture yet, what does it mean? ... _Oh_. Well that _is_ quite vulgar, but perhaps you interpret it differently than I."

"What did it say?"

"It, er, seems to have implied that my clothing is only worthwhile because it creates an interestingly flavored banquet." A nervous frown. "But I'm certain they didn't mean it as a threat."

Bahorel glared at the pillows, then clasped the poet on the shoulders. "No, I'm quite certain they didn’t."


End file.
